


Really Strange Odds

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Gen, Humor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-03-26
Updated: 2000-03-26
Packaged: 2018-11-10 06:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11121327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Turnbull has a lot more going on for him than people give him credit for!





	Really Strange Odds

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

(Type a title for your page here)

 

 

Title: Strange Odds  
Author: AJ Dannehl  
Rating: RRS (Really Really Silly)  
Pairings: None  
Season: somewhere in seasons 1 or 2  
Spoiler: None  
Disclaimer: Everyone knows who owns Ray, Benny, Turnbull, and Due South;  
i own the other characters in this little exercise. This  
is written not for profit (oh, please!), only for entertainment of myself  
and whoever chooses to read this.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
�Hiya, Benny!�  
  
Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, looked up from the desk at his friend�s  
entrance. Ray Vecchio bounced into the Canadian Consulate in a manner  
that would have highly irritated Inspector Thatcher. The Inspector, perhaps  
fortunately, was absent. �Good afternoon, Ray. I�ll be finished  
with this,� the Mountie said, indicating a neat stack of paperwork  
in front of him, �in just a moment.�  
  
�No need to hurry,� Ray assured him magnanimously. �Where�s  
the wolf?�  
  
Fraser sighed. �He�s not speaking to me.�  
  
�What �cha do now?�  
  
�I merely,� Fraser said, a bit petulantly, �noted that  
his waistline was perhaps a bit...rotund, and so suggested that he curtail  
some of his snacking and engage in more physical activity. So not only  
did he sulk, he refused to accompany me to work today. Willie kindly  
agreed to watch him today.�  
  
Ray grinned. �Guys� Night Out, then. How�s a bit of basketball  
then a pizza sound?�  
  
�That sounds perfectly fine, Ray.�  
  
�Great. What time d�ya think... _damn,_ Turnbull! What  
the hell are you dressed for?�  
  
�Drawing class, Detective,� Turnbull answered, offering his  
sketch pad and box of drawing tools as evidence. Inspecting the younger  
Mountie�s attire, Fraser was again grateful that the Inspector was  
in Ottawa for a conference. Turnbull�s cut-off khaki shorts, faded  
polo shirt, sneakers and athletic socks, while appropriate for an art  
class, would most definitely _not_ meet with the Inspector�s  
approval, especially displayed in the Consulate. �Professor Taylor  
requires a number of _in situ_ drawings from nature. Some of my  
classmates kindly allow me to ride with them when we travel to produce  
them. The drawings, I mean.�  
  
Vecchio rolled his eyes heavenwards. �What _is_ it with you  
Mounties, anyways?� he whined rhetorically. �Always moochin�  
rides from people. What, they don�t let you drive anything in Canada  
but dog sleds?�  
  
�Now, Ray,� Fraser began reproving his friend, �you are  
just being silly. You yourself should be able to recall a number of times  
when I dro--� His lecturer was interrupted by the Consulate�s  
doors opening, so he gave it up as a lost cause. Not that Ray would listen  
in the normal course of events anyway, but especially not now: the Italian�s  
attention was claimed by the pretty young woman who had just entered  
the foyer.  
  
�Ah, Constable Fraser, Detective Vecchio!� Turnbull said excitedly.  
�This is my friend, Michelle Vernet. She�s Professor Taylor�s  
graduate assistant.�  
  
�We�d better get a move on,� Michelle, after the round  
of handshakes and usual social niceties ended said, looking at Turnbulll.  
�Sasquatch�s on his sixth.�  
  
�Ah,� Turnbull said, with the look on his face that most people  
considered as representing his mental capacity as somewhat less than  
a dead otter�s: entirely zero. �Synchronized count?� he  
asked, looking at his Mountie-issued watch.  
  
�Three-ten,� Michelle said, looking at the lefty�s watch  
on her right wrist.  
  
Turnbull nodded decidedly, tapping his own watch. �I call four-fourteen  
with a sketchbook.�  
  
�Oh, no, amigo,� Michelle shook her own head with equal determination,  
sending her dark-brown ponytail swishing. �No way it�ll go  
that long. Besides, it�s impossible for you to call it _that  
_ precisely. Better settle for something after four, compadre.�  
  
�Oh, God,� Ray moaned, rubbing his scalp. �She talks Turnbull-speak.�  
  
�I went to the University of Alberta at Edmonton,� Michelle  
said as if in explanation. Evidently it was for Ray, for he flashed an  
understanding grin. Explaining further, for Fraser�s benefit, she  
continued, �That�s where I met Renny.�  
  
�Renny,� Ray echoed, one eyebrow quirked. Turnbull returned  
the Detective�s gaze, unruffled.  
  
�You sure you wanna cut it that close, Ren?� Michelle asked  
her friend. �Four... what time did you say?�  
  
�Four-fourteen,� Turnbull reminded her.  
  
�With a sketchbook,� Fraser added.  
  
�With a sketchbook,� Turnbull repeated.  
  
�Ohh- _Kay_ ,� Michelle agreed, still appearing doubtful.  
With a sigh, she shrugged, then asked Ray and Fraser, �Why don�t  
y�all join us tonight for pizza and to see how this all turns out?�  
  
�We would not wish to intrude,� Fraser said, ignoring Vecchio�s  
expression of disagreement.  
  
�It would be no intrusion, Constable Fraser,� Turnbull said.  
  
�Intrusion? Y�all are invited,� Michelle reassured the  
older Mountie. �Eight o�clock at Cascio�s OK?�  
  
�I know where that is,� Ray said, nodding, then looked narrowly  
at his friend. �Benny?�  
  
�That would be fine, Ray.�  
  
�Great!� Michelle smiled first at Fraser, then at Vecchio.  
Perhaps a _little_ more warmly at Ray, maybe... With that, the two  
artists turned and headed for the door. Ray and Benny could hear their  
conversation, still in Turnbull-speak, until the Consulate doors closed.  
  
Ray turned to look at Benny. �Mounties!� the cop snorted, shaking  
his head despairingly. �What _is_ it with you guys, anyway?  
And what the hell were they talkin� about?�  
  
Fraser, having no answer for either question, kept quiet.  
  


*  
  


It was a little after eight o�clock when Ray and Benny  
arrived at Cascio�s Real Italian Cuisine and Pizzeria: Dine In or  
Take Out. Upon entering, they easily spotted Turnbull and his friends  
and so went to join them, weaving their way carefully between the packed  
tables and hurrying waiters. After another round of introductions, places  
were found for them. With some judicious maneuvering (aided and abetted  
by Turnbull, to Fraser�s amusement), Ray managed to find himself  
next to Michelle. Neither seemed inclined to fuss about the arrangement.

�Everyone here now?� Anthony, the waiter asked as he served  
glasses of water all around. Seeing nods of consent, he went on. �Your  
order�ll be ready soon. Two giant sweep-the-kitchens, one large  
all-meat, a large mushroom and black olives and a large double pepperoni,  
right?� Various people nodded. �Great! Drinks?� He rapidly  
wrote down the various orders, tore the page from the order pad, then  
asked, �Who�s this week�s winner?�

�Take a guess, dammit,� a gigantic young man complained mildly.  
His imposing size, head of thick, wildly curling brown hair and equally  
thick brown beard easily ex plained the nickname �Sasquatch�.

�Renny again?� The waiter was impressed. �Third time.  
Nice streak ya got goin�, Ren. If you ever play the ponies, spot  
me a few tips, OK?�

�Do you mean,� a worried Fraser asked, �that you are engaged  
in some sort of gambling operation? _All_ of you?� The last  
was obviously aimed at Turnbull.

�You an� Turnbull wanna cuff �em while i read �em  
their rights?� Ray, accepting a glass of soda from the waiter�s  
tray asked, poker faced.

�Whoa, you guys cops or something?� a guy wearing a Mr. Bubble  
T shirt and whose name Ray could not immediately recall asked. The questioner  
looked decidedly worried.

�They�re Canadian and out of their jurisdiction,� Ray  
explained, indicating the two Mounties. �I�m Chicago, but off-duty.�  
Mr. Bubble looked relieved.

�Well, Ray,� Fraser said, rubbing his eyebrow and blinking  
rapidly a couple of times, �I think that, while what you just said  
is factual, none of us, as law enforcement officials, are ever truly  
beyond the scope of our respective responsibilities. For example, look  
at the time when our airplane was hijacked and we crashed in Canada.  
Whilst both of us were officially on holiday--�

�A good time was had by none,� Ray interrupted. �And nobody  
really cares, Benny.� From the expression on Fraser�s face  
it seemed the Mountie disagreed with his friend�s statement, but  
elected to remain quiet.

�Besides, what do you expect Renny to do, arrest himself?�  
The speaker, Julie Thibideaux, looked like she was Elaine�s Cajun-accented  
, long-lost twin.

�Hey, maybe he could write himself an official reprimand,�  
Sasquatch added, chuckling.

Michelle snorted derisively. �Come on,� she protested. �No  
one on earth could be _that_ anal!�

�Really,� Ray agreed, carefully not looking in Fraser�s  
direction.

�Besides, the stakes in this game is that the winner doesn�t  
have to pay his or her share of the tab,� Julie explained to Benny  
and Ray. The explanation appeared to mollify Fraser.

�Just _tell_ us, Ren,� Sasquatch said, �just how  
the _hell_ have you been able to call it three damn times in a row?�

�Call what?� Ray asked.  
�How many times Sas can sing �Brown Sugar� before Julie  
beats him down,� another student, Bob, who had been fairly quiet  
up to that point, explained.

Anthony and another waiter, bearing pizzas, appeared. �Wait a minute,  
Ren. We gotta hear this.� Hearing this as well as his friends�  
various expressions of agreement, Turnbull waited until, places cleared  
and pizza dispensed, the waiters and everyone else at the table could  
give him their undivided attention.

�Well,� Turnbull began, blushing slightly, �it is fairly  
simple.� Warming to his topic, he continued in classic detective  
denouement mode. �I noted the first day when Sasquatch sang the  
song, Julie was able to restrain from any, ah, displays of...irritation...  
until the twenty-seventh time you repeated yourself.�

�And it still hurts, too,� Sasquatch complained, rubbing his  
shoulder.

�Big baby,� Julie said with mock sympathy.

�I observed that there were seven minute intervals between each  
rendition,� Turnbull continued. �This held true the next time,  
when Julie hit him with a T square, but this time after he�d sung  
only twenty-four times _and_ the third time, when she popped him  
with her copy of Jansen�s _History of Art_ after twenty-one  
renditions, again noting the time intervals and the fact that she would  
use as a weapon whatever she held in her hands at the time.�

�But she didn�t _have_ anything in her hands the first  
time,� Mr. Bubble objected. �She just used her fist.�

�Exactly,� Turnbull beamed at him. Ray, taking a sip of his  
Coke at that exact moment, choked. Michelle helpfully whapped him on  
the back until he was able to breathe normally.

�Got it!� Bob said. �Something in her hand, she popped  
him with it. Nothing in her hands, then she used her hands.�

Julie, arms crossed over her chest, looked thoughtfully at Turnbull.  
�So you, just using mathematics and observation, were able to get  
out of paying the tab three times. Very sneaky.� Grinning widely,  
she concluded, �I am impressed.�

�As am I,� Fraser, his voice a little strangled, said.

�You da man, Renny!� Bob said, saluting him with his soda.

�Da man!� the others chorused, clinking their glasses in a  
toast. Fraser and Vecchio, both looking a little dazed, joined in silently.

�Hey, is _everyone_ in Canada as smart as Renny?� Mr.  
Bubble demanded.

�Um,� Fraser answered.

�Ah,� Ray added.

�Eh,� da man said, turning as bright red as a Mountie�s  
dress uniform.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
